Chapter 7 #3
“Aggravated battery,” she reads out loud to the empty room, noting where the document indicates that the proceedings were suspended. “He settled out of court,” she says out loud again, slamming her fist on the desk.
In Louisiana, aggravated battery is a serious charge—a felony, actually—and one that carries a sentence of up to ten years in prison. The courts usually don’t sleep on a charge like that, so Wren is very curious to know the details of the case since this charge took place in Colorado.
As she forces herself to go to bed, her mind races.
She wonders what all this means, whether the smoking gun is somewhere adjacent to this information.
Suddenly it seems like Philip Trudeau may be to blame for not only Richard’s murder but possibly more.
Her thoughts whirl with the amount of suffering for which he may be responsible.
She settles into an empty bed, begging for sleep to come but knowing it won’t.
Around three a.m., Wren sips her coffee, staring out the same kitchen window she always does.
The light is hours away from slipping through the trees, and the sounds of nature are getting louder, but they are always changing.
It’s funny how the sounds evolve throughout the night and into the day: Creatures enter and exit; they crescendo and then rest for their next performance.
It’s really something to listen to, and most humans don’t get to be there for it.
Spending a lot of her time being thrust awake at odd hours of the night has brought Wren what feels like a uniquely private view of the nocturnal realm.
Lately she’s made her way downstairs in the middle of the night, every night.
She doesn’t sleep much now, and the ghosts don’t like the kitchen, it seems. Maya was right; Wren just needed to change the way she interprets the energy in their home.
It still scares her, wakes her up at night, and it doesn’t feel entirely welcome, but she’s learning to live with it, because every once in a while, she can smell Richard’s cologne amid the dread.
Of course, she’s not sure if it’s just in her head, but she really doesn’t care.
The familiar scent makes the night a little more bearable, and that’s all she can hope for at the moment.
She’s actually become fond of her nightly roaming, because every evening at around the same time, she can hear the coyotes howling.
Sometimes they just yelp or whine, but if they have a scent or catch something, they scream as a collective, celebrating and calling the family back to the hunt.
Sometimes their calls are so loud and clear that it actually feels like they might be in the house.
It can be overstimulating, but it’s also a strangely comforting feeling, knowing they are all around her at some of her worst moments.
She’s spent so many nights with them now that it’s beginning to feel like they belong to her.
Last night, after weeks of listening to them, imagining their movements and looking up whether they can open locked doors, she finally saw one while bringing out the trash.
He was crossing the yard right near the edge of the woods, the very picture of grace.
His paws barely made a sound, and if it wasn’t for the abundance of fallen sticks on the ground, she might not have heard him at all.
After a moment, he saw her too, and as soon as they locked eyes, he stopped in his tracks.
At first, Wren’s instinct was to run back into the house, back to the ghosts and the grief.
She had discovered that both could be dangerous and disruptive roommates, but at least neither of those could physically tear the flesh off her bones.
The coyote’s gaze wasn’t menacing, but it was incredibly powerful.
She could feel herself locked in place, sharing a private moment with a naturally skilled apex hunter.
Instead of running, she just froze, completely transfixed by this predator at the edge of the woods.
He was beautiful, tall, with sleek fur tinged with an auburn hue that she could see in the light of the moon.
She wondered if he was part red wolf, one of the remaining ancestors of a dying and elusive species.
Whatever he really was genetically, the fear she initially felt seemed to dissipate as they stood there examining each other.
Suddenly, a calm rolled through her like nothing she had experienced.
It was as if a breeze had blown something mystical around her, whispering to her that this creature wasn’t going to hurt her.
In fact, she felt drawn to it. Something in his eyes was familiar, almost kind.
Richard?
The thought ripped her from her reverence. She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it away. When she looked up again, the coyote wolf was gone, escaping as silently as he had arrived. Wren missed him immediately.
Now, tonight, she sits, staring out the window, aching to see him again, just for another moment.